


Sound Reasoning

by nogoaway



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: John Tops; Hell Reports Coldest Day in Recorded History, M/M, No Reedeming Qualities Whatsoever, PWP, Sounding, Urethral Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harold eyes it suspiciously. "There are a limited number of places that could go," he says.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is <i>exactly</i> what it looks like, and I'm sorry in advance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound Reasoning

**Author's Note:**

> The Disclaimer I Feel Morally Obligated to Make: This is not a 100% realistic depiction of sounding (and not a great example of kink negotiation). Don't do this at home without researching first and building up to it. Communicate with your partner. Clean your toys, UTIs are not fun.
> 
> Also: I know nothing about computers or programming and it shows.

"I really ought to get some more work done before bed," Harold says, just for posterity's sake. He ought to. He really, really ought to. He owes Ms. Groves some code feedback, and Swan is being audited (again), and he's been working on back-filling a more versatile civilian identity for Ms. Shaw in the middle-income bracket, and to top it all off his current pet project, the HFT  platform, is having a multi-party loop issue that he won't be able to untangle without cracking into several external--

"Harold," John says, amusement poorly hidden as usual beneath his particular brand of casual menace, "If I have to handcuff you to the sink, I will."

Harold looks with dismay at the exposed piping beneath John's sink. It's clean, of course, John keeps a very clean apartment, but still. It's _plumbing_. _Visible plumbing._

"If Detective Riley gets a much deserved raise, would he consider getting a cabinet installed? It's unsightly."

John rolls his eyes heavenward for a moment. "Come on," he says, patting the lip of the tub. "Sit."

Harold sits, bare feet settling on the shower mat. The ceramic edge of the bath is wide and smooth and hard and cold, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of his nakedness. He stopped feeling self-conscious in front of John years ago, but in the bright white little bathroom, staring down at his knobby knees and crooked feet and plump thighs and stomach, all of his bodily defects are screamingly obvious. He reaches down to adjust his genitals, mindful of the cold ceramic. He feels _old_.

John sets something black and cylindrical like a rolled paintbrush case on the closed toilet lid, and sits down behind him, powerful legs on either side of Harold's hips. Harold leans back into him gratefully.

"How's your back?" John wonders softly, like he always does. It's rare for Harold's back to be bothering him and John _not_ to pick up on it through non-verbal cues; John's as perceptive as Bear is that way, sniffing out pain and tension. And they both know that sitting upright with John holding him from behind is a position that Harold can manage even on bad days. But he still asks, without fail.

"It's fine."

"Hmm," John murmurs, running his hands down Harold's arms, nuzzling at the top of his head, the shell of his ear "Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter," Harold says automatically, and when no reprimand is forthcoming, admits-- "I'm having an issue with the high frequency trading project. And I'm old and fat."

"I'm old and greying," John offers, dropping coy little kisses on the frame of Harold's glasses "and I like your belly." He runs a hand over it, proprietary. "Did you ask Root?"

"I'm looking to find a specific error," Harold says, "not a full structural overhaul. This program could potentially go to market, and Ms. Groves'... intuitive approach to design would be too obviously--" he pauses, annoyed with his own slowness in putting appropriate words to thoughts. He's tired, and he cannot explain this particular problem to someone without a solid background in programming trends and the history of computer science, at least not in a way that is not criminally reductive. "Too obviously revolutionary. She writes treatises in Latin for a world still using cuneiform script--"

"Okay," John says, and it's not an 'I understand what you are trying to communicate via your bizarre metaphor' okay, it's a 'I've just made an executive decision' okay. "Sorry I asked."

Harold harrumphs. John's hand migrates from his stomach to his penis, still stubbornly soft. He can't focus, there's a kind of fog over everything today, more than just distraction and frustration, more than just fatigue. He feels scattered, aloof and unreal, stuck in his own recursive process. He can't hit the brakes, can't come back down to earth.

"Stop thinking," John coaxes, and reaches over to unroll the case. "I brought something for you."

"Well now I'm thinking about _that_ ," Harold snaps, and then squints when John pulls out one of several long, metallic rods from a row of thin pockets. There's a tearing sound-- something plastic opening, and then John's running the rod through a folded sterile wipe, leaving it glistening. It's nearly as long as a knitting needle, but thinner, and there's a little oblong knob at one end, like a cocktail stirrer.

Harold eyes it suspiciously. "There are a limited number of places that could go," he says.

"You're so smart, Finch," John teases, and gently circles his index finger, bearing a drop of lube, around Harold's cock head beneath the collar of foreskin. "But I told you to stop thinking."

"You may as well tell me to stop--" Harold starts, and then hisses when John's hands (always bird-quick and strong and exact, how many times has Harold seen John pull a sleight of hand trick in the field, or pick a lock in seconds?) do several _somethings_ to him all at once: a pull, and a pinch, and then _sting_ and _cold_ \--

"Stay still," John orders, and closes his legs tighter around Harold's, holding him in a firm, if gentle, body lock "and exhale."

"Ah," Harold manages, his eyes stinging for a moment with confused shock, and then he _feels_ it, it's _inside_ of his-- it feels _huge_ , how could that possibly--

He exhales, as slowly and evenly as he can. John's other hand, the one that isn't holding the-- the _thing_ \-- is coaxing Harold's soft cock upward to point at the ceiling, letting gravity help thread the bar in millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

"Shh," he whispers, kissing Harold's temple. "There you go."

It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's so obvious and strange that Harold can't really feel anything else, the same way he would if he _were_ hurt. Mostly his body just seems confused-- he stares down at John's hands, mesmerized. The rod is only inserted an inch or so. As he watches, John rotates it gently between thumb and forefinger, easing it in deeper. The knob at the end moves visibly under his skin, a strange little bulge.

Harold tries to slow his breathing down to something closer approximating "resting" than "sprinting, possibly while pursued by angry dogs". Closing his eyes helps, so he does. Breathes in, and out.

"I learned about these from Kara," John says, not sounding bothered at all to bring up what Harold knows was a dark time in his life. "I thought you might enjoy them. I know how much you like penetration."

Harold makes a deeply embarrassing choking noise and the rod slides all the way home, or at least he thinks he does-- the little weight at the bottom taps something inside of him that doesn't open up like the rest of him has been opening, something that shoots heat through his stomach and thighs and guts, a hidden place that has never been touched before, that was never designed to _be_ touched and sends confused signals like looping code back to his brain, _yes yes yes_ and _no no no_ and _oh oh oh_. 

He has to look. He has to-- to help him make sense of what is happening, to have some point of reference--

He looks. The other end of the rod, held lightly between John's fingers, glints up at him like a jewel or a piercing. It's obscene, and bizarre-- he's not hard yet, hasn't had enough time to _get_ hard, but at the same time he _is_ , threaded with steel that forces his cock straight upright, and the thought of that, of being pierced and strung through, of being inside out and having something so alien, so _outside_ , _in_ \-- it's repulsive and appealing all at once, and that embattled confusion of affects produces a surge of arousal that's so base and bodily it doesn't even feel _his_ , it's just _happening_ to him--

John pulls the thing out slowly, steadily, and if he weren't hemmed in by John's thighs Harold would rock his hips up to follow it-- he feels stretched, empty, stingingly and swollenly sore in a way that's so much more immediate and localized than when John slips out after fucking him-- it feels like a _wound_ , but instead of pain, something sparking and tingling floods through it.

"I think you can take more," John whispers, and then there's another touch of cold, slick metal against his sensitized head-- thicker, heavier, and Harold has to clench his teeth to keep from screaming, he wants it, he wants it, and it almost, _almost_ hurts. It can't come fast enough-- he's hard now, and the knobbed end slips against his skin, too wet with lube and the pre that Harold is leaking in embarrassing amounts, but John finds the opening and presses in, relentless, and it's so _huge_ , god--

Harold gasps and whimpers, needing to do something with his hands-- Pull it out? Push it deeper?-- but when he claws at John's thighs, grasping for some kind of steadiness John just wraps his arms tighter around Harold's, pinning him down. John holds him just tightly enough that Harold can't move, can only whine and pant and feel it being _done_ to him. John fucks him with it, first slowly, then faster when more fluid wells up around the rod, physical evidence of Harold's confused eagerness.

"God," John groans, hot and damp right at his ear. "God, you're so beautiful. Look at you, look how wet you are, Harold--"

He loses track after that-- the case has dozens of them, and John must try four or five. He describes each one before he inserts it: width, texture, length, curvature, but at a certain point Harold stops listening. His world has narrowed down to a six-inch, linear dimension, and John's speaking and soothing behind him is only so much sub-sonic rumbling against Harold's back, John's warm chest and humming throat just one wall of the stiflingly hot box that Harold feels enclosed in, the cage of flesh and steel that shrinks and shrinks around him until there's nothing but that single point, that single place deep, deep inside that has never before known pressure or texture or touch.

The last rod is thick and spiral fluted, like a drill bit. John eases it in slowly, and then taps with his fingertips against the bottom of Harold's cock, teasing the layers of skin and tissue pulled taught over the steel. He toys with it, hefting up Harold's heavy, swollen-feeling cock and humming when the slightest shift sends a new spike of feverish pain/not pain through him.

When he closes his hand around Harold fully and strokes, Harold whites out for a fraction of a second. Then the sound is out and John is easing him through it, coaxing spurt after spurt of ejaculate from Harold's tormented cock as he shakes full-body, feeling rattled and wrung out from his toes to his teeth. Harold can't even be bothered that most of it lands on his thighs.

He watches dazedly as John wipes him off, stands up, and drops the sounds in the sink.

"I'll sterilize them in a minute," John says, as if Harold _asked_. "Up?"

He offers him a hand, which Harold takes. His legs feel like jelly, though, and John has to supply more assistance in getting him upright and into the bedroom which is fine, because really it's John's fault that Harold can't coordinate his limbs at the moment.

Harold collapses gratefully onto the mattress and makes vague noises of dismay when John doesn't immediately accompany him on the horizontal.

"Just getting you some water," he soothes, and a moment later Harold is propped upright and drinking from a twist-cap bottle while John does his best to fit himself around Harold's body like a particularly lanky and angular emergency blanket. Harold sips and lets himself be cuddled, feeling immensely content and blissfully blank.

"Okay?" John murmurs, pressing lightly on his stomach and groin with searching fingers, and Harold hums with agreement, letting his eyes slide closed. "Nothing hurts?"

"Nothing hurts," Harold mumbles, into his neck. His glasses got lost somewhere in there; he can't be bothered with that at the moment. John always folds them and sets them right-side up anyway.

"Hmm." John rubs his cheek over Harold's hair, like a cat marking territory. "Wanna tell me about high frequency whatever?"

Harold snorts. "No."

"Thank god," John teases, and lips cheekily at his ear. "It's really, _really_ boring. You know that, right?"

Harold's too tired to roll his eyes. "Go to sleep," he says, and drifts off to John breathing soft, sweet words into his scalp.


End file.
